Where the Light Falls(127)

André snapped the reins of his exhausted horse and cantered back to rejoin his squadron, eager to tell them that they were indeed saved.

—

“They will drink themselves to death.” Ashar reined in his horse beside André’s.

André laughed. “I think some of them might welcome that.”

“No, it is the truth,” the Egyptian answered, his tone as humorless as his facial expression. “Their bodies are not meant, after ten days, to guzzle this much. They must sip this water in moderation, slowly, or they will poison themselves. I have seen it before.”

The warning, and Ashar’s certainty, settled on André, and he turned with a new, horrified concern to see thousands of Frenchmen glutting themselves in the water, gulping uninterrupted mouthfuls.

“Stop drinking, damn you!” The order was issued from over André’s shoulder. André turned and saw the outline of a familiar figure. Nicolai Murat. André’s entire body stiffened, but the general cantered past him and rode directly toward the bank. “Stop drinking, that’s an order!”

André had a feeling that this would end badly, so he rounded up his men, some of them only footsteps from reaching the river. “Squadron, back into column!”

His men, stunned and incredulous at being ordered not to drink the water their bodies so badly needed, nevertheless assented, muttering unhappily under their breath as they stepped away from the river and gathered around André.

But some of the other squadrons and infantry companies already appeared as an unruly mob, abandoning their discipline to the intoxicating relief the river provided.

“Stop drinking, that’s an order!” Murat, atop his horse, yelled louder at the hundreds of troops bathing in the river. Most of the men either did not hear the general or chose to ignore his orders, too feverish were they drinking and splashing in the water.

“To file now, lads, we’ll drink our fill in a moment, but we must be patient.” André kept his men close, even as he kept his eyes fixed uncomfortably on Murat and the chaos unfolding in the nearby river.

With a decisive movement Murat reached for the pistol holstered at his waist. He raised it and took aim. A loud crack was followed by a plume of smoke and the familiar scent of burnt gunpowder as the bullet hit a man who was stooped over the river, greedily gulping mouthfuls of the Nile. The man did not see it coming. His body fell into the water with a splash, a flow of red seeping across his back. It was as instantaneous as it was inglorious, this man’s death on the Egyptian riverbank.

All around now the other men ceased their drinking and turned in the direction of the gunfire. “The next man to drink without his commander’s permission shall face a firing squad,” Murat shouted, his mustache quivering as he spoke. “You are soldiers in the French army, not beasts without control over your instincts. You will show moderation, or you will bring about your own death.”

The men began to inch back away from the river, huddling in small groups with looks of disbelief, fear, and anger. André was as stunned as the rest of them, but he kept his men close, an organized cluster removed from the melee of the riverbank.

“Officers, control your men as they refill their skins and canteens.” Murat turned his horse, not glancing again in the direction of his lifeless victim. “And someone bury that damned fool.”

Ashar remained beside André at the bank of the river, his voice sage as he watched the flowing waters before them. “I’ve seen it before.”



Later, once the column had re-formed and recommenced its seemingly unending march, they hugged the snakelike shape of the Nile on a southeasterly course. Much of the panic had dissipated, washed clean by the fact that their thirst had been sated and the water source would henceforth remain in sight, bordering the army’s eastern flank for the remainder of the march. Morale rose as they continued on, bound for Cairo.

As they marched farther inland and south, André and the men got their first glimpses of villages and local Egyptians. The people were dressed simply, in lightweight cotton that hung loosely on their frames and sandaled shoes much more suitable for the terrain than the heavy leather of the French boots. Their eyes, dark and inquisitive, watched as the soldiers lumbered past. Some of the little children ran up to the moving columns, jabbering in incomprehensible Arabic as their bare feet scudded along to keep pace with the strangely dressed French.

One morning they encountered a train of Egyptians marching in the opposite direction from their lines. Several camps had begun to pop up along the banks of the Nile. Establishments that appeared temporary, as if the people were on the move.